Read Online The Whizz Pop Chocolate Shop by Kate Saunders - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate Saunders
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like rooms in an invisible house. At the far end of the space Oz saw a laboratory gleaming with glass tubes and jars. One pool of light contained a carved wooden bed covered with a faded green quilt; another contained a white bathtub like a boat, half hidden behind a screen covered with pictures of castles.
The man he knew to be Isadore Spoffard sat in an armchair nearby, pouring himself a glass of whisky. Oz stared at the face he’d seen in the SMU mugshots, with its shifty dark eyes and thin black mustache. He looked about the same age as Oz’s dad, but he hadstopped getting older in 1938; how must it feel to be that ancient?
“Hello,” Isadore said. “You’re my great-great-nephew Oscar; how do you do. I’m sorry I had to kidnap you, but since I didn’t get the mold I had no choice. I won’t hurt you because I can’t be bothered—unless, of course, you try to escape.”
Oz found that he was a little less scared. “Where is this?”
“I call it The Grotto,” Isadore said. “It’s an old subway station—West Piccadilly—that fell out of use in the early 1930s. I came to live here after my official death.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“You’re a hostage,” Isadore said. “I’m going to swap you for the golden molds.”
“Oh.”
“This has been the most infuriating night. You have no idea how much time I’ve spent trying to get my hands on those molds! I knew perfectly well where they were—so near, and yet so far! Somehow their magic defeated me and I couldn’t touch them. Tonight, I held Marcel’s star, only to have it snatched away at the very moment of victory—” He broke off to sneeze violently. “I must get out of these wet clothes—and I suppose I’d better find something for you.”
Isadore gulped the rest of his whisky and vanishedinto the shadows. A few minutes later he emerged, wearing an identical—but dry—white suit. He handed Oz a small heap of clothes.
“Put these on and come out into the kitchen area, where I can make us some hot tea.”
He vanished again, and Oz looked at the clothes. There was a pair of white linen trousers and a white linen shirt with long sleeves, both yellowed with age and far too big. He peeled off his wetsuit and made the dry clothes fit as best he could, rolling up the legs and sleeves. Isadore had also provided a striped tie, which he used to hold up the trousers. He was sure he looked ridiculous, but the clothes were soft and very comfortable.
To find the “kitchen area,” he followed the sound of the old-fashioned whistling kettle, echoing off the tiled walls of the old tube station. In another puddle of lamplight was a glowing stove, a table and chairs and a wall covered with pictures—Isadore had made himself a surprisingly cozy home down here. Oz was interested to see, underneath the big lamp, a violin in an open case. He wondered if he’d be allowed to play it.
“I apologize for the oily smell,” Isadore said. “I can’t get electricity down here without being discovered. I make do with fires and oil lamps. Do sit down.”
Oz sat down at the table and Isadore gave him a mug of tea, milky and sweet and delicious. It was notdrugged; neither were the ginger biscuits. As his bravery increased, so did Oz’s curiosity. In his imagination, evil Uncle Isadore had been a kind of monster, like a Bond villain or an ogre in a fairy tale. In real life he was an ordinary, sour-faced man, with a seedy air of loneliness and defeat.
“How long will you keep me here?” he dared to ask.
“I don’t know. It all depends upon the man known as ‘J.’ ”
“I’ve met him.”
“He has to give me my molds—so that I can at last make my chocolate, and live out the rest of eternity as the richest man on earth.” Isadore poured more whisky into his tea. “I’ll fetch some food in a minute. There are these very tasty newfangled things called ‘pizza’ that I’ve recently discovered.”
“Great,” said Oz. He liked
The man he knew to be Isadore Spoffard sat in an armchair nearby, pouring himself a glass of whisky. Oz stared at the face he’d seen in the SMU mugshots, with its shifty dark eyes and thin black mustache. He looked about the same age as Oz’s dad, but he hadstopped getting older in 1938; how must it feel to be that ancient?
“Hello,” Isadore said. “You’re my great-great-nephew Oscar; how do you do. I’m sorry I had to kidnap you, but since I didn’t get the mold I had no choice. I won’t hurt you because I can’t be bothered—unless, of course, you try to escape.”
Oz found that he was a little less scared. “Where is this?”
“I call it The Grotto,” Isadore said. “It’s an old subway station—West Piccadilly—that fell out of use in the early 1930s. I came to live here after my official death.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“You’re a hostage,” Isadore said. “I’m going to swap you for the golden molds.”
“Oh.”
“This has been the most infuriating night. You have no idea how much time I’ve spent trying to get my hands on those molds! I knew perfectly well where they were—so near, and yet so far! Somehow their magic defeated me and I couldn’t touch them. Tonight, I held Marcel’s star, only to have it snatched away at the very moment of victory—” He broke off to sneeze violently. “I must get out of these wet clothes—and I suppose I’d better find something for you.”
Isadore gulped the rest of his whisky and vanishedinto the shadows. A few minutes later he emerged, wearing an identical—but dry—white suit. He handed Oz a small heap of clothes.
“Put these on and come out into the kitchen area, where I can make us some hot tea.”
He vanished again, and Oz looked at the clothes. There was a pair of white linen trousers and a white linen shirt with long sleeves, both yellowed with age and far too big. He peeled off his wetsuit and made the dry clothes fit as best he could, rolling up the legs and sleeves. Isadore had also provided a striped tie, which he used to hold up the trousers. He was sure he looked ridiculous, but the clothes were soft and very comfortable.
To find the “kitchen area,” he followed the sound of the old-fashioned whistling kettle, echoing off the tiled walls of the old tube station. In another puddle of lamplight was a glowing stove, a table and chairs and a wall covered with pictures—Isadore had made himself a surprisingly cozy home down here. Oz was interested to see, underneath the big lamp, a violin in an open case. He wondered if he’d be allowed to play it.
“I apologize for the oily smell,” Isadore said. “I can’t get electricity down here without being discovered. I make do with fires and oil lamps. Do sit down.”
Oz sat down at the table and Isadore gave him a mug of tea, milky and sweet and delicious. It was notdrugged; neither were the ginger biscuits. As his bravery increased, so did Oz’s curiosity. In his imagination, evil Uncle Isadore had been a kind of monster, like a Bond villain or an ogre in a fairy tale. In real life he was an ordinary, sour-faced man, with a seedy air of loneliness and defeat.
“How long will you keep me here?” he dared to ask.
“I don’t know. It all depends upon the man known as ‘J.’ ”
“I’ve met him.”
“He has to give me my molds—so that I can at last make my chocolate, and live out the rest of eternity as the richest man on earth.” Isadore poured more whisky into his tea. “I’ll fetch some food in a minute. There are these very tasty newfangled things called ‘pizza’ that I’ve recently discovered.”
“Great,” said Oz. He liked
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